


Maybe I Shouldn't Think of You As Mine

by guti



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Europa League, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Phone Calls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 09:16:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6368881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guti/pseuds/guti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s focused on the job, on leading the boys through this first leg, but every so often, in the back of his mind, he wonders what the hell’s going on at Anfield.  At a certain point before the half, he’s tempted to check his phone and find out.  Luckily, Phil’s done all that for him.</p><p>“Damn,” he mouths, biting on his lip once they make eye contact.</p><p>Gary raises his eyebrows, waiting for the explanation that will surely come.</p><p>“Sturridge,” he says under his breath.  “Penalty in the twentieth.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe I Shouldn't Think of You As Mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neyvenger (jjjat3am)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/gifts).



> i was supposed to fill a prompt but then i accidentally started on the wrong one and i tried to start again but i liked this better. anyways, this is mostly an attempt to shake some writer's block while i'm on vacation. i hope it's ok.
> 
> title comes from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lLeCB7Kn-VE).

Sometimes, he wonders if they were doomed from the start. But then, when he really thinks about it, he remembers that there’s no room for wondering. They’re doomed. They always have been, always will be. There’s no place in their world for a happy ending. Hell, there’s barely even room for any type of respite at all. But still the endure, together. Or apart, as it were.

The pitch barely qualifies as one, the puddles deep enough they could swallow a man whole. Everyone is soaked to the bone, miserable, shivering. Spain might be more temperate than what he’s used to, but March in the rain is March in the rain. Doesn’t help that they’re obviously outclassed and don't stand a chance of winning. He’s focused on the job, on leading the boys through this first leg, but every so often, in the back of his mind, he wonders what the hell’s going on at Anfield. At a certain point before the half, he’s tempted to check his phone and find out. Luckily, Phil’s done all that for him.

“Damn,” he mouths, biting on his lip once they make eye contact.

Gary raises his eyebrows, waiting for the explanation that will surely come.

“Sturridge,” he says under his breath. “Penalty in the twentieth.”

Gary can only nod. Valencia gave up their own in the twentieth too. Prettiest header he’d seen in ages, and from a club he didn’t even care to follow six months ago. Boy, didn’t he feel the fool now. 

He looks to the fourth official, watching as the man pushed in some digits on his clock to signify the extra time for the half. 

“They can make it up,” he says at last, and it’s unclear which team he’s talking about anymore. Truth be told, he isn’t exactly sure himself. Beside him, Phil makes a quiet noise of agreement.

Of course, they don’t. Neither of them do, and he’s forced to suffer through yet another round of questions regarding his methods, another bout of having to justify the work he’s been doing, repeating the same mantra again and again while highlighting the positives. He’s used to it by now, sad as it is, and he plays the part like he’s supposed to and vows that they’ll redouble their efforts, but first they need to concentrate on the game at the weekend.

He checks his own phone afterward, after he’s made his speech and gotten into the car for Phil to drive him home. There’s no messages left for him. There are a couple of tweets though. Gary reads them with a frown but doesn’t respond. He’s been more or less M.I.A. from social media for awhile, no need to rile the masses up by engaging in petty banter. Not on a night like this one. Not after the day he’s had.

He lets out a heavy sigh and his brother turns his head to look at him a moment. Their eyes meet for a moment and Phil says nothing before looking back to the road.

He drinks wine with his dinner, more than he usually does, more than is really responsible. It seems right in the moment, seems like a fair way to cope with the stress of his day, his situation, his entire life. He’s not drunk, but his head feels a little fuzzy when he checks his mobile again to see if there’s a message at all. Nothing. Nada. It’s all radio silence, and in a strange way, he’s glad for that as he turns off the television and gets ready for bed.

The phone rings later, well after he’s already shut off the light and crawled beneath the covers. He knows who it is without having to reach over and check it, and he half considers that he won’t answer it. His resolve lasts all of two seconds and then he’s got the mobile pressed to his ear as he sinks against his pillows.

“Called to gloat have you?”

“Who me?” He sounds all too happy. It makes Gary want to squirm. “ _Never_.”

“Then why’d you call?”

“Maybe I’ve missed the sound of your voice, Gaz. Ever think of that?”

He closes his eyes, kicking himself for the way his heart almost gives off a flutter of approval. If there’s anything he doesn’t want to feel just then it’s the sudden resurgence of giddy emotions that are attached to Jamie Carragher. If there’s one day in the whole calendar year when feeling fondness for that bastard is one thousand percent a liability it’s today. Not when he’s so down. Not when everything he’s ever loved or wanted to has been defeated.

“Gaz?” Jamie says again, because he’s been too quiet. 

“Carra,” Gary manages, a heavy ache in his voice.

“Don’t want to do this tonight, mate?” 

Gary isn't quite certain what he means— either the conversation as a whole or just the bantery bits, or the part of their phone calls that usually comes after the talking, more often than not. It’s a nice routine they’ve fallen into, a private little escape from everything else, when it’s just the pair of them on the line with their dirty talk, just the two of them panting and pleading and getting off. Gary likes it, he does, but the whole thought of talking Jamie through an orgasm after Liverpool’s pummeled United at Anfield actually makes his skin crawl. He might be sleeping with the enemy, but he sure as hell isn’t alright with rewarding him after that showing.

“I’ve had a bad day,” he finally says, and Jamie makes a noise of understanding. 

“Should I let you go then?” Jamie asks with a sort of mindfulness that surprises Gary even now.

“No.” He fidgets a little, suddenly feeling as wound up about the results of the day as he had been right after the fact. Jamie has a way of getting under his skin without doing much of anything at all. He’s always had that way about him, for as long as he’s known him.

“Then—?”

“I don’t want to rain on your parade,” Gary says, cutting him off. He thinks he should say something else, something to clear the air, make sure Jamie knows it’s nothing he’s done personally, it’s only the weight of all the pressure he’s been under, the strain of seeing his stupid side(s) lose yet again. He’s done it to himself, he knows it, knows full well it’s not Jamie’s fault for wanting to gloat, but Gary just can’t sit there and be happy, can’t even bring himself to banter back at him. Not today. Not when he’s just so _tired_ of everything.

“Alright,” Jamie says. “Tell me something good.”

Gary blinks slowly, like it hasn’t registered what Jamie’s said. “Huh?”

“Something good, Gaz. It’s all gone to shit, I know, believe me, but there has to be something that went alright.”

He takes a moment to think it all over and search for something to say. Truth be told, there’s not a lot of bright spots in his life right now, besides that he truly feels like he’s connected with a lot of the Valencia lads, and the fact that he really is gaining some useful managerial experience. But what’s that compared to results? It’s a tall order to coach a proper side, and Valencia are a big club. The expectations are high, and perhaps he was a bit too lofty with his goals, but if he didn’t think he had it in him, he wouldn’t have tried. It’s a long way to fall though, and now that he’s crashing, well… he’s really starting to feel it.

And that doesn’t even factor in the disappointment from home. He might be wearing a bat crest and stripes now, but his heart’s always been red, and it always will be, and he’ll ache and bleed that same color as they do anytime they’re mired and stuck.

But there is a bright spot amongst the doom and gloom, and Gary is sort of beside himself when it hits him. He almost laughs, but it comes out as sort of a nervous wheeze before he’s able to swallow the noise back. 

“You called,” he says finally, bracing himself for the mockery that’s sure to come. The very second he’s said it, he wants to take it back. They might be intimate, but they’ve never been too sentimental. Not openly, anyway. It’s not that he wouldn’t like to, but it’s more of a practical thing. If it’s just physical, it’s safe. If it’s just sex, who cares. When there’s feelings involved… that’s when everything goes to pot. Not that he has much firsthand experience, but what experience he does have proves this theory to be true. ’Tis better to be well shagged and left wanting more than to throw caution to the wind and pursue an actual emotional affair only to end up heartbroken, dreams dashed, let down, all alone. And now that he’s opened his mouth, he’s put it out there, hopes on the line, with the chance of losing it all. And yet somehow he can’t stop talking. “The only good thing about today is hearing your voice, having you phone me.”

And while he’s expecting the absolute worst, Jamie surprises him with a laugh that’s gentle, far gentler than Gary could’ve hoped for. And the laugh fades into a soft sigh that sends shivers down Gary’s spine and makes him wish he wasn’t so very far away. “You Mancs’ll say the damnedest things when you’re down and out,” Jamie chuckles, and even though he’s teasing, Gary can’t help but feel all warm inside. “Tell me more, Gary. Tell me how me talking makes you weak in the knees.”

“Shut it,” Gary huffs, far too embarrassed and amused for his own good. But despite it all, he’s glad he wasn’t right out rejected. He couldn’t handle that, not after the day he’s had. “I’m just glad you called.”

“I’m glad I called too. I’ve got the best anecdote of all time now. Imagine, Gary Neville loves the sound of me voice on the phone. Stevie and the lads’ll get a kick out of that.”

“Carra,” he warns, met only with Jamie’s too loud laughter.

“Joking, mate. This is just for me. No one’ll know except you and me.”

Gary closes his eyes, comforted by that, though all things considered, Jamie’s got far worse dirt on him than that. It’s only the admission that he _is_ fond of Jamie, that he _does_ like his calls that makes him nervous. He coughs abruptly. “Why’re you calling me anyway? Shouldn’t you be out celebrating, painting the town red, living it up with the boys, drinking in the win?”

“Nah,” Jamie says. “They can celebrate well enough without the likes of me hanging on. Besides, I wanted to call you.”

Gary chokes on his own saliva. 

“It’s not one-sided, if that’s what you were thinking,” Jamie continues. “I wouldn’t call you all the time if I didn’t like talking to you.”

Gary makes a gurgling sound.

“I’m being honest, Gary. I like listening to you and your plans. I like it when you talk. Manc accent and all.”

“You’re lying.”

“No I’m not.”

“I can’t believe you.”

“That’s fine. You don’t have to. But I thought since we were confessing things—”

“I didn’t confess anything!”

“Only that you’ve got a thing for me voice.”

“I haven’t got a thing for your voice, you muppet. I’ve got a thing for _you_.” And there, he’s said it, despite his best efforts, despite not wanting to confess to anything he’s gone and fessed up, and on the worst, most stressful night he’s had since that night at Camp Nou. So much for wanting to sulk the night away on his own, now he’s gone and poured his heart out to the Scouse bastard of all people. He’s gone and doomed them both, for real this time.

Jamie answers him with a tired little sigh, and once more Gary finds himself wishing he was there. Not for sex, not even for the physical companionship. Just because he’s Jamie and he’s been there for him like no one else has these last couple years. They’re friends now. They’re lovers sometimes. They could be more. Gary’d like it if they could be more. Maybe someday, when they’re not doomed to fail. Or when he’s not personally doomed to fail.

“Listen,” Jamie says at last, “I can’t pretend that I’m gutted over beating United.”

Gary sniffs.

“But I am gutted for Valencia. And I’m gutted for you. Believe it or not, Gary Neville, I am sad when you’re sad.” Gary mutters something under his breath. Jamie presses onward. “Because everything you’ve said, I could say back at you. Why else would I keep calling you? I promise you, mate, it’s not because I like hearing you mispronounce everything.”

Gary wants to protest, and he makes a squawking sound, only to have it swallowed up by more of Carra’s melodic laughter. And god help him, Gary can’t help but start laughing too.

“Carra,” he says after catching his breath. “Do you think we can make it?”

“No,” he answers. “Actually wait, can you clarify that? Are you talking about United or Valencia?”

“Neither,” Gary says. “I meant us. You and me.”

There’s a long pause, long enough that it makes Gary a bit nervous again. But then he hears Jamie exhale, and somehow he’s calmed by it. “Sure, why not? Stranger things have happened.”

“You don’t think we’re doomed? You don’t think it’s futile?”

“Greece won in ’04, didn’t they?”

“Yes.”

“Eighty to one odds, if I’m remembering correctly.”

“You are.”

“Right. Then there’s always hope for us in the end. If Greece can win the Euros, then what the hell are we fussing for?”

There’d be no Europa League trophies for United or Valencia, the first cuts were just too deep. Gary realizes this as he finally drifts off to sleep. But perhaps the predictions of end-times and doom are a bit premature. He might be made to suffer of late, but on the bright side, if he squints he can bask in the glow of a happy Jamie, soak up some sunshine through osmosis. It guts him that Valencia’s lost, gut him even more that Liverpool’s won, but if Jamie is happy, then he is too.


End file.
